


"And If I Built This Fortress..."

by jerel



Series: Domino 'verse [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-18
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 12:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jerel/pseuds/jerel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor deals with hurts past and present, and tries to find a way out of the prison he has created for himself. A secretive young woman and a mysterious writer could be the keys.</p><p>Depictions of gay bashing, domestic violence, PTSD, men kissing other men; reference to a past rape (no details). Bad language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anything She Does

I don't think I ever made a conscious decision to be alone. Well, right after walking out on Philip I did. I couldn't get close to anyone after what I went through with him. Eventually, I got used to not being close to anyone. But then, you'll cross paths with a person (or three, in my case,) and figure out that yes, you have been missing something.

It was about four years ago that I first encountered Alanna and Quinn. I met Alanna first, but only because Quinn was walking more slowly.

A friend of mine was in _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , and was able to get me some free tickets, so I went with a date. I don't even remember his name anymore. That was a pretty good indicator of how well it went. There was just no chemistry.

We'd started the evening at Zanzibar's, the cafe I own. It might seem silly to some people. The directive to "meet in a public place" is something I'd say to my female friends (except Al, although even then...) At any rate, we changed our minds about driving and decided to walk over to the theatre, a few blocks away. On the way back, we kept a little bit of a distance, trying to stay inconspicuous--just two friends walking along. I guess we didn't do a very good job. At the end of the block, I noticed four men, some of them a pretty good size. There was enough light that I could see their faces. And I knew that expression. If you say the word "gay," most people get this momentary uncomfortable look. Their eyes will dart away for a split second, if you're lucky. I was no stranger to it. Those looks just bounce off, harmless spent shells. This was worse. It was that look of utter disgust and hostility. When I was on the receiving end of that look, I was uncomfortable in my own skin.

Nothing going on here, just a couple of guys hitting the bars, I rehearsed mentally. There was no shortage of those in the direction we'd just come. No, that wasn't going to work. We certainly weren't dressed for hanging out. Fancy restaurant? Yes, brilliant! Meeting our wives? No wedding bands. Girlfriends? It might work.

I think my companion recognized that expression too. He'd stopped and taken a few steps backwards. Before I could say anything, he turned and ran. I decided that was probably the best idea. But I must have hesitated too long, because they were suddenly surrounding me. "Okay. It's, just be cool." I'd been mugged before, in Los Angeles, so I went for the strategy that had kept me alive. Slowly, I took out my wallet. "Here. It's all I've got." I held it out. I tried to keep my voice steady, but I wasn't quite so successful with my hands.  
One of them knocked it away. "We don't want your money, faggot," he said.

"We saw you and your little faggy boyfriend there. You people're disgusting."

"Look, I don't want any trouble," I began. No one else was around, and there was no place for me to run.

"Shoulda thought of that before becoming a homo," another one said, stepping closer to me. It was likely all of them were drunk, but I didn't have to wonder about that one. The scent was radiated off of him like he'd taken a bath in it.

The first punch landed in my stomach. It took a second for the pain to register. Then all of the air rushed out of my lungs. Then another one. I heard and felt that one--right in the jaw. My glasses went flying. More punches to the chest. Everything went fuzzy and I felt myself sliding down the wall. Two of them hauled me upright, holding me against the wall so I couldn't fall down. They just pounded on me over and over. It felt like my entire upper body was on fire. I had no sensation in my face. Even if there had been anyone around, I had no voice left to call out. I had no voice even to beg for my own life. I closed my eyes, praying that someone would interrupt. Please God, I'm not ready to die, I thought. But if no one came along, I was going to.

A sudden loud voice, heavy with authority, echoed off the brick walls: "Police! Hold it right there!"

"Shit!" one of them yelled. They scattered and I slid to the ground. A new set of jeans-clad legs stepped into view. My vision was cloudy from pain and lack of corrective lenses, but I could just make out the long red hair. She—I guessed it was a she—couldn't have been a cop. She was much too small.

"Jesus Christ," was all she said. Her face bent closer down to mine. I could see her clearly now. For a split second, pity flooded her face, and she looked as if she would cry. But just as suddenly, her jaw set and her eyes went blank.

"Officer. Help me, please," I whispered.

"Actually, I'm not a cop. I just said that so they'd leave you alone."

A tall, dark-haired man stepped out from the shadows. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just been running. Was it one of them, back to finish me? I backed away in a desperate attempt to escape, but in trying to rise, I stumbled over my own feet.

"Oh, no, it's okay. He's with me," she explained quickly. I nodded, which only served to make me very dizzy.

"Al, what's going…oh my god," the new arrival said. He crouched beside me, and I got the sense that he was evaluating my injuries.

The woman shrugged. "You know me. Can't help getting involved in an unfair fight." She took one look at me. "Hell, this wasn't even a fight. More like a bunch of drunk assholes with nothing better to do."

Her friend stood up. "I don't like the way he's breathing, and that arm is at a funny angle. Plus his head's been whacked around. Might be a concussion." He began digging in his pocket for something, and turned to walk a little ways up the street.

I tried to disagree, tried to tell him I was just a little bruised. I wanted to. But first I just wanted a little rest. My eyes started to close. "Hey!" The loud voice again. "Come on you, stay with me here." She tried to fix me into a straighter sitting position against the nearest wall. "What's your name?"

"Victor. Vic. Patterson." It finally occurred to me to ask, "What's he doing?" It was obvious they were trying to help, but I still wanted to know.

"I think he's calling an ambulance," she said.

"No." My brain told me to escape, but my body wasn't responding. "No hospital. No." They'd want to know what happened and why. I'd had friends who were attacked. I saw how the police treated them. I wasn't going to go through that. More looks that made me feel like I was guilty of something horrid. No more today. "No police." The one arm I still had feeling in finally got the message to get away, and I tried to push my way to my feet, but it must have only looked like I was sliding, because she propped me up again.

Her companion came wandering back by. "Hope not. Unless you know any that can treat a concussion," he responded.

"Save it, Quinn," she said. "You're saying you don't want to report this to the cops." I nodded, sort of. It was more like my head just fell forward. "Okay. But you're going to the hospital. Got it?" That was a voice I didn't want to argue with. "I'm Al. This is Quinn. Quinn, Victor. We all good now?"

#  
It was the concussion that made them keep me overnight. That was in addition to the broken arm, two cracked ribs, the bruises, and all the swelling. They gave me some kind of tranquilizer, so I spent most of the night in and out of consciousness. I dreamt about the assault. And I dreamt that Alanna was there with me, in the hospital. At least, I thought it was a dream. She'd promised to check on me, and she did, but to my drugged-up brain, it was almost like she was constantly there. I also thought I saw flashes of light, heard whirring noises. I kept those to myself, because I wanted my next stop to be home, not the psych ward.

Alanna was true to her word about not getting the cops involved. But I wasn't able to stop her investigating on her own. In the morning, when I was finally coherent, she explained things to me. "We've got some friends on the force. They do a little extra 'helping' on the side for people who need it, and you certainly need it."

"No, I don't," I insisted. "Muggers, that's all. They're not exactly repeat offenders."

"Then maybe you can tell me why none of them seemed remotely interested in the wallet on the ground?" she asked.  
"Well, they didn't exactly strike me as the brightest crayons in the box," I replied.

She laughed. "That's good! I'll have to remember that one. But seriously, what did they want?"

"Trouble? A sick thrill? Who knows?" I asked. "Look, it's no big deal. Just drop it."

There was that look again, those unreadable eyes there was no arguing with. "No."  
#

I spent about another week at home, until the worst of the outer damage had faded. I lied to my staff and said that I was in the hospital for exhaustion. It was believable, because I'd been at the restaurant a lot lately. All the injuries, I explained, were from a spill I took down the stairs after fainting. As a result, I said, I would only be able to be in half the day for a while. I would leave the restaurant about seven, before it got too dark. I told them to call me if there were any problems and I would come in right away, but I was confident they wouldn't, because they would hate to disturb their overworked, recently hospitalized boss. I hated having to lie to them, but telling the truth, that I was the victim of a gay bashing, was not an option.

At first, I was in too much pain at night to think about it, and when I started back to work, I kept myself so busy I didn't have time to think about it. The pain pills helped, because they kept me from dreaming. The things your mind does are much worse than what can be done to your body. When I was awake, I knew there had only been four of them. In my dreams, there were seven or eight, and they were about twice as big. Over and over again, every night. Blood streaming down my face. I waited for that voice, Alanna's voice, to lash out and send them all running. But it never did. I watched the sunrise too many mornings, waiting for sleep to take me back.

The days began to get harder, too, and not just from lack of rest. If they lived or worked in the area, maybe they'd end up in my restaurant. What would they do? What if they saw me leaving? Would they follow me home? Did they already know where I lived?

I would have been better off walking by myself that night.

Once it occurred to me they might show up one day, I took to hiding out in my office. "Office" was kind of a misnomer; it was a converted closet, and rather claustrophobic. But I'd rather face the lack of space than those men again. I started having deliveries brought around to the front, or sending two or three of my staff out to receive anything, in case they were lurking out back.

About two weeks after the incident, when I was hiding in the back on the pretense of balancing the books, one of the hostesses, Lisa, said someone was looking for me.

My stomach did a somersault. "Who?"

"Alanna. Kinda skinny redhead," Lisa said.

"I'll be out in a moment." How did she find me? What if she'd said something to Lisa? I hoped my knees weren't shaking too much as I went out to meet her.

She was looking at the flower sun catchers in the window, hands clasped behind her back, wrinkles creasing the fabric of her dark blue t-shirt. She turned to face me, and I saw my reflection in her sunglasses. "Hi. Is there some where we can talk privately?"

Silently, I led her into the office. There was only one other chair, which was doubling as a shelf. I shoved everything under it. "How did you find me?" I demanded.

"They said I was too small to be a real cop, so I have to be a pretend detective," she said, deftly sliding the sunglasses into a pocket. "How's the arm?"

I shrugged the good shoulder. "Stiff cast, can't feel anything."

"Been there, done that. Twice. This arm." She patted her left forearm. "Look, Victor, we want to help."

"I don't need any help." I was starting to get cross. She was a reminder of a night I wanted to forget. "I appreciate you saving me, but I'm fine, really." I sat down at my desk and picked up my pencil.

"Sleeping all right?"

I twitched visibly, banging my knee on the underside of the desk. "What?"

She was leaning on the wall by the door. "Just wanna know how you've been sleeping," she said. "No insomnia, no late night wanderings? No nightmares?"

"What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"I told you, I'm here to help."

I slammed my hand down on the desk. "I don't need any help!"

The casual, friendly demeanor vanished. She stalked over to me, but there was nowhere for me to go. To my astonishment, she grabbed her own t-shirt collar and yanked it down. A long, curved scar stood out on her pale skin. "You see this? Know how I got it? He had a knife. I sliced myself on it trying to get away. I didn't want any help either. I was fifteen. And for four years, I spent every day looking over my shoulder and almost every night pacing the floor."

"What happened? How did, how did you make it stop?"

She let go of her shirt and it eased back into place. "I made sure I was strong enough so no one would ever try it again. And then I kicked his ass. But enough about me." She stepped back. "I don't wanna see you drive yourself to a nervous breakdown. You...you need someone who understands."

"Maybe I do." Four years? Can I feel like this for that long without losing my mind? She was strong. It was the way she carried herself, straight-backed but not stiff, like she was ready to face any challenge, stare it straight in the face. There was something old in those pale blue eyes, a total contrast to the youthful face. No, if she couldn't endure for that long, there was no way I would last another month.

"Good." Alanna dropped into the chair I had cleared for her. "So, did you know them?"

"No."

"Okay. What did they say to you?"

"Nothing that made any sense."

Her expression changed slightly, but I wasn't sure if it was a flash of doubt or disapproval. "What were you doing before that? Where were you?"

On the blind date from Purgatory, I wanted to say. "I was at a play. A friend was in it. I was on my way back here."

"Just you?" she asked. I nodded. "You know, Vic--can I call you Vic? Here's why I think there's a missing piece to the puzzle. I believe that you didn't know them, so that leaves out blackmail. And humiliation is the goal of the blackmailer, not physical pain. And you still had your wallet, and muggers don't beat a person senseless after their target cooperates."

"I guess they just didn't like the way I looked." That was true. I looked like a queer, so they beat me up for being a queer. The fact that they guessed correctly was irrelevant.

"Maybe." She shook my good hand when she got up to leave. Her grip was strong. "Give us a call if you think of anything." She scribbled a phone number on a grocery receipt she'd found in her pocket.

Just as she got to the door, I asked, "Did you really kick his ass?"

"Yes. I broke his balls and then tossed him through a plate glass window." Her eyes were cold and dead. "And to tell you the truth, that was too good for him." The cheerfulness returned as suddenly as it had vanished. "Be seeing you."

I made a mental note to stay on her good side.

#

She popped in later that week, just to chat. I stuck to the basics: big family in suburban New Jersey; a degree in theatre, which was fun to earn, but mostly useless later in life; a sales career, which was almost like theatre, in that I sometimes would have to pretend I liked whatever I was selling, and frequently had to lie; and acting when the fancy struck me.

"...but what I always wanted was to own a restaurant. Being rather low on capital, I snapped up whatever I could find for furnishings, which is why everything is mismatched."

"I kinda like it. It's different," she said. We were sitting at a table in the back instead of in my office this time. Alanna was stuffing a sandwich into her mouth as fast as she could. I had opted for Darjeeling tea, which she had made a face at, so I had tried to keep the steam from blowing in her direction. I had acquired the taste for the strong, bitter tea during my year in England.

"Well, Vic, I'll tell ya', I'm enjoying the company, but I was also hoping to find something there where you'd run into someone who might want you hurt. I'm not hearing anything."

"I told you, I didn't know them."

"But maybe someone sent them. Or maybe there was something that happened, a situation you were in." She shook her head. "There's something very important that you're not telling me."

"I don't mean to offend you, but you can't expect me to completely open up when I've just met you. I mean, I don't know anything about you. And why do you eat like a starving person?" Perhaps she was starving. It would explain why she was so thin.

She swallowed. "I grew up with four brothers. The only way you got seconds in our house was to finish first. Oh, and I own all the Beatles albums on vinyl, and I don't like cooked broccoli." She looked at her watch. "Quinn and I have a hearing to go to." She tossed a couple of dollar bills on the table.

"What happens when you find these people?" When she mentioned court, I panicked. "I can't go to the police about this."

"Sure of that, are you?" Before I could respond, she gave me a grin and a little salute. "Be seeing you."

I did see her again. Quite often. It was like she knew when the bad days were going to happen, and stopped by then. As time went by, we talked less about my case and more about other things. I knew lots of little things about her, and she was never shy about her opinions ("How can you drink that shit? It's revolting!") but she still seemed kind of aloof. But the smiles came more frequently, and there was less coolness in her gaze.  
Sometimes, she brought Quinn along. He was in some ways Alanna's opposite, open and very friendly. He acted mellower, but in some ways he was more intense. The way his dark eyes burned, it was like he could see right through me. Like he knew everything about me, but I was never sure if judgement lurked behind those eyes.

Four months after the incident, I looked over the order counter one morning. One of THEM was sitting ten feet away from me, calmly reading the paper. I was overwhelmed by a blinding shock, like a camera had gone off somewhere in the back of my brain. Spots had danced before my eyes and things started to seem far away, even Lisa's voice, asking me what happened.

"Hit my bad arm on the counter," I had lied. "I need to go sit for a while." I practically ran for the office, where I picked up the phone and dialed Alanna had given me. Quinn answered. "This is Victor. One of them is here. I don't...I can't..." I wasn't entirely sure why I was calling. "Help."

"I'm already out the door," he replied.

About ten minutes later, I heard the back bell ring. Quinn was standing out there. "Where is he?" I described what he looked like and where he was sitting. Quinn nodded and closed the door. I stared at it for a few minutes, wondering what had just happened, when Lisa came bursting into the office.

"Vic, they're arresting the guy at table seven!" she said.

I gave her a wide-eyed stare back. "You're kidding me. And I'm always saying this business is so dull." I followed her back into the restaurant, which was now buzzing with conversation. I was just in time to see him being escorted out, the handcuffs behind him flashing in the morning sunlight. Quinn was standing near table five, just to the right of seven, looking just as shocked as the rest of the patrons. He gave me a quick wink and a smile.

#

They had arrested him on some other charges—drugs, I think. But he was going to plead guilty, and receive a fairly light sentence.

Alanna brought me the news. I sat at my desk, twisting a paper clip. Of course, he wouldn't be paying for what he'd done to me. I hadn't told anyone.

"If only there was something else we could get him on," she said, looking directly at me.

I shook my head. It was quite obvious where she was going with this. "Absolutely not."

"Vic, it doesn't matter why. I know I keep asking, because it matters to me. But it's not going to matter in court. You were minding your own business and they came after you."

"And how do you know I was minding my own business?" I'd seen too many courtroom dramas. I knew that would be the question.

"Oh come on, Vic. You hate confrontation. That's why you hide out back here half the time. That's why you called Quinn when that guy was here. Because you weren't ready to face it."

I almost shook at how exactly she had pinned it down. I did stay away from conflict. Too many chances I'd slip up, that I'd say something and someone would know. "Let's say you're right. Let's say I wanted to file charges. What's my evidence?" The cast was off and the bruises were gone. I had a hospital report, but it only detailed the what, not the why; I hadn't told the hospital staff anything except that I was in pain, so they could only make assumptions. Plus I'd lied to my employees. Logical next question was "what other lies are you telling?" And if I were put on the stand, I would have to tell the truth about that. I could tell as many lies as I needed to in my daily life, but I couldn't do it under oath.

From inside her coat, she took out an envelope. I felt the colour drain from my face as she spread several Polaroids out on the desk. They were pictures of me, taken that night. Several of my face. One of my bare chest, pale but for the rainbow of bruises. The flashes and the whirring—it had been her. With a camera.  
"How dare you." I barely heard myself. My insides were boiling, and I dug my nails into my palms. "How dare you." She didn't say a word, didn't move, just stared at me with those damn calm eyes. I exploded at her. "How dare you violate my privacy! Who the hell do you think you are?"

"Save it." There was no emotion in her voice. "The hospital took them. They know you didn't get those injuries cleaning the grill. They know an assault victim when they see one. I lifted them before you were discharged. Don't," she pointed at me, "I know what you're going to say, so don't bother. Maybe I didn't have the right, but if I hadn't held on to these, you wouldn't have the choice you have now. You would have destroyed them."

She was correct about that. I still wanted to. Irrational as it was, part of me thought if the pictures were gone, the feelings would fade. But then it occurred to me. The bruises on me were gone, but not in these photos. My fingers rested lightly on the white border of one picture. How had she known at that moment, I would see these photos for what they really were, and not just an unpleasant reminder of what I'd rather forget?

"Evidence," I whispered.

"Give the man a gold star." She took out a key ring. "I know the lieutenant who's on duty right now. He'll listen."

I gathered the pictures back into the envelope. I stuck my head out the office door. "Morgan!" I called to my assistant manager. "I'm going out for a bit. You're in charge!"

"'Kay, boss!" she shouted back.

I followed Alanna to her car. Quinn's car, actually. The silver sports car was more his style anyways. Her ancient Honda must have been in the shop again, because she hated driving Quinn's car. I thought it was odd that she had the car at all, because she preferred the train to trying to navigate downtown traffic. Unless…

"You knew. You knew you could talk me into this," I said. I started to unbuckle the seatbelt.

"I didn't talk you into anything. I just made the suggestion. If you hadn't been ready to hear it, you would have shredded those pictures and threw me out of you office."

How did she do it? She was much too young to know people's hearts this well.

#

Someone from the district attorney's office, an eager young man named Mr. Brent, was there about thirty minutes after I gave my statement. More of Alanna's connections, I'm sure. Mr. Brent was thrilled to find more things to charge the guy with. The photos were great evidence, since they were taken by and at the hospital. He had the statement in front of him, but I had to tell the story again. I left nothing out except for the fact that I was on a date with another man. "They seemed to think I was gay or something. I'm not, though," I said, all of it as casual as I could.

"It doesn't matter," Mr. Brent said. "They believed you were, so that would have been enough—if sexual orientation was covered under the state's hate crimes statues, which it's not, unfortunately. Which is too bad, because the mandatory sentences for hate crimes are pretty heavy." He took a copy of my statement and put it in his briefcase. "I think we have a pretty good case here," he said. "We've got the photos, an eyewitness," he nodded to Alanna, "and your testimony."

"Testimony?" I repeated.

"Of course." Mr. Brent frowned. "You are willing to testify if those goes to trial, aren't you?"

"There's not much chance of that, is there?" Alanna asked. I was glad she had, because I couldn't get any words out.

"Well, that's true," he admitted. "This guy's got a public defender, and if I just go with the pictures and statement, I think he'll plead guilty. With this on top of the drug sentence, he won't be out for parole for at least five years. And I have the suspicion he'll roll on his buddies."

"No honour among thieves, right, Jamie?" Alanna said. Mr. Brent shook both our hands and left. Alanna's lieutenant friend escorted us back to the parking lot. He gave Alanna a bone-crushing hug before saying goodbye to both of us. "Friend of my two oldest brothers," she explained. "They're cops. Third one's a paramedic, fourth one is studying to be a crime scene tech."

"And for a pretend detective, you seem to know Mr. Brent awfully well," I said. "You're not a pretend detective, are you?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Okay, you win. Quinn and I work for Mr. Brent's office. That's how I found you. And how Quinn was able to get that arrest warrant executed so quickly."

It explained her "do-gooder" sensibilities. She came from a family of them, and had almost been a victim herself. But why me? Why had she taken such a personal interest? I asked her.

"You didn't want a doctor or the police. Never even asked us to call anyone. So you know what that said to me?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I thought 'this guy needs a friend about now.' Because I know what it's like, not to have anyone." And then, much to my astonishment, she blushed. "Plus you're kind of cute."

I felt myself turning as red as Alanna's hair. "No one's ever said that to me before."

"Really? Well, you are. It's the eyes I think. But before you get any ideas, I'm not hitting on you or anything," she laughed. "I know you're not interested."

Nervously, I said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Vic, I'm not stupid," she said. Softly and kindly. "You don't have to lie to me. And I keep my friends' secrets."

"Are we friends, then?" I asked her.

She stuck out her hand. "If you'll have me."

Without hesitation, I shook her proffered hand.

I think she has more than friendly feelings for me. I've never thought of myself as that good-looking. And more so now that my hair is starting to grey and that every time I look in the mirror, it seems there's one more crease on my face than there was the day before. I must admit that being found attractive by a pretty woman almost half my age is very flattering. Alanna and I have a special relationship. It's something more than friendship, but it's not romantic.

No, the real object of her affections is Quinn. For some reason, which I completely fail to see, she doesn't think she's good enough for him. No amount of reassurance from me will convince her otherwise, and I've tried numerous times. I think she's afraid. Of what, I don't know, because from what I've observed, Quinn feels the same way. It's maddening watching them dance around like they do. Life is short, my young friends, I want to say. The way Alanna lives, the physical risks she takes, it will probably end up being shorter for her. I wish they wouldn't waste their time pretending not to care as deeply as they do.

But I could relate to the fear. Still, I wasn't about to get entangled in their romance--or lack thereof--because I had enough trouble sorting out my own heart. I had just about been ready for a relationship, but the whole attack had sent me back to my corner again. Perhaps out of the ring, the arena, and the whole circuit was more accurate.

Then Cameron W. Archer walked into my restaurant.


	2. The Last Domino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor deals with hurts past and present, and tries to find a way out of the prison he has created for himself. A secretive young woman and a mysterious writer could be the keys.
> 
> Depictions of gay bashing, domestic violence, PTSD, men kissing other men; reference to a past rape (no details). Bad language.

I guessed he was a reporter, or a writer, because of how he read the paper. He'd read for a while, then look up, like he was pondering something. Of course, this was before he was in there scribbling in a notebook.

I had always enjoyed people-watching, and I was good at it. The trick was to keep your eyes moving, so people didn't think you were watching them. I didn't watch him, though. I stared at him. And I couldn't help myself. Maybe it was the way he'd brush a section of his thinning, ash-blond hair away from his eyes. I was never close enough to see what colour they were, only that they were small. Or maybe it was the round jaw line and youthful face. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five. I felt a bit of "a perv," as Alanna would say, staring at someone who was probably born after I started college. But it was hard for me not to stare.

After a month or so, I found out his name, when he paid by credit card. Cameron W. Archer. It was a good name for a writer, maybe of mysteries or horror stories. It was also a good name for a romance novelist, but something told me he wasn't one. One morning, I noticed his name in the paper at the end of an article, along with the names of two or three other people who had contributed to the piece.

He usually came in at night, a couple of hours before closing. But we never really spoke, except to say "hello," until after the lobster roll incident.

One evening, there was a particularly disgruntled customer. The place was pretty empty, except for Cameron and maybe a couple of other people. Still, it bothered me the man was disruptive. And now, unfortunately, I can't think of lobster rolls without thinking of this man. Lobster rolls are a New England creation; they're like chicken salad sandwiches, but with lobster instead of chicken. And I use a certain type of roll that's only made in Boston. Between the cost of shipping those and the lobster all the way from New England, it's a fairly expensive dish.

Well, this man didn't like it. I must admit I was a bit skeptical about that, considering he ate the whole thing. His excuse for why he shouldn't have to pay? "It was cold."

"That's the way they're served, sir." I lived in Boston for three years, and they were always served that way.

"He didn't tell me that," he said, pointing towards Joe, my waiter.

I may have assumed too much in thinking the customer would figure it out since it was listed with chicken salad, egg salad, and tuna salad sandwiches...all of which are also served cold. But I do have a tendency to be optimistic about the intelligence of others. "Well, sir, if you had a question about a menu item, you needed to have asked." I also pointed out that if, when it had been served, it wasn't what he had expected or wanted, we would have replaced it at that time gratis. As it was, he had consumed $20 of my Massachusetts lobster, and as I couldn't get the lobster back, I was keeping his $20. It was possible Alanna was rubbing off on me. Even a month before, I would have caved in.

But I stood my ground as he yelled at me and called me a bunch of names, and how my place was this, that, and the other thing. All of this was liberally sprinkled with four-letter expletives.

I continued to look him straight in the eye, although being only five-foot-six, I had to crane my neck a bit. "Fine. Don't come back. But if you do not leave right now, I'm going to call the police and have you removed from my property."

He almost started again, but I silently pointed to the door. Thankfully, he used it.

After he left, I walked back towards the kitchen, mumbling something like, "Why do they have to pick my place?"

I guess I said it louder than I meant to, because Cameron said, "Maybe the restaurant gods have been too easy on you lately."

"Yes, but they broke my deep fryer last month" I replied.

"The ways of the restaurant gods are often mysterious," he said, smirking. The page of the open notebook was covered with writing. At least, it looked like writing. The letters were almost indistinct and everything ran together.

"You must be a writer. They've all got messy handwriting." Immediately, I apologized.

"No offense taken. It is pretty bad," he admitted. "Even I can't read my own chicken scratch sometimes." Casually, he flipped it closed. "Are you the night manager, or...?"

"I'm the night and day manager. I own the place," I told him. "And I must be doing something right, because you keep coming back." Careful, Vic, you sound like you're flirting, I thought.

"It's a good atmosphere," he said. "It's so...post-modern."

Which was the exact word that I often used to describe the place. "I had too much capital for a minimalist cafe." He chuckled, which was a good sign. Not because it was a good joke—it was weak—but it meant he knew something about culture. "I'm Vic."

"I figured you had to be high up on the food chain, because everyone's always yelling for you," he said. "My name's Cameron. Cam is fine."

"Do you work at the paper?" Logical question. It was close by. He had no idea I'd seen his name in it, of course. I noticed there was a silver chain around his neck. It was old, or in need of a good polish. The way it bent inwards, I guessed there was something on the end of it, hidden under his shirt.

"On occasion. It's something to do between books." I was half-right about the mystery writer thing; he actually did true crime books. I also found out he was thirty-four, only two years younger than me; my guess had been twenty-five.

It evolved the way typical friendships do. One progresses from casual remarks to actual conversations. Of course, I never mentioned that I...so help me, I had a crush on him. It was that feeling where if you could just see the person, even if only for a few seconds, your day was brighter. But that's not the kind of thing one just blurts out to somebody one has, for all intents and purposes, just met. And certainly not when one has no idea about that somebody's sexual preference. So I was helpless.

There was an evening where Cam and I were the only people around. Most of our socializing took place after hours. He'd had a very bad day with his publishers. They wanted a Mob book, but Cam wasn't really into the idea. He wanted to do a serial killer book, but the publishers were more interested in getting in on the ground floor of what they believed was an upcoming trend. "They're looking for non-murder Mob stories. Buying politicians, drug trafficking, stock fraud, that stuff. Low body count. Not interesting to most of the public." When Cam had these very bad days, he preferred Irish coffee, extra on the spirits.

I don't know how we got there, but we got around to the relationship thing. Cam had alluded to his single status in the past, as had I. I was having plain coffee, but it seemed to have loosened my tongue none the less. "My last few relationships didn't last long," I said. "They were just something to do, I suppose."

"Oh, wait, I know that tone," he said. "That's the voice of someone who had his heart broken."

"You could say that. Or you could say I screwed up, and now here I am, lonely in my old age. Maybe I should just give up." It was certainly the truth, but the fact that I was vocalizing it surprised me.

"Nah. It'll happen someday. I mean, if you want it to." He put a hand on my shoulder. We'd had casual contact before--handshake, pat on the back. But there was something about the way he squeezed it. Reassuringly...my imagination of course, I figured.

"Maybe." I kept my tone neutral. It was an effort, with that warm hand on my shoulder. I didn't mention that it was something I did want—with him.

"You have something on your face, here." He pointed to his own cheek. I tried to mirror him, but I must have missed. "No. Here." Before I could react, he reached up to brush it away. His touch was so light, I hardly believed it was there. And it lingered. This was definitely not casual contact. It was a caress. I didn't say a word. I wanted to hold on to the moment, because any minute, he was going to run out the door, and I'd never see him again. I was going to enjoy it while it lasted. There was a hesitation in his face, like he was afraid I was going to yell at him or punch him. And then, I looked into his eyes. Really looked. They weren't brown, like I'd previously thought. They were hazel, with hints of green. And there was a look I recognized, because it knew it was the mirror of my own. It was the face of someone who held desperately to the hope that unrequited love, for once, might not be.

I saw his other hand inching forward slowly. I hoped that his courage wouldn't fail him now, because I wouldn't be able to offer any words of encouragement--or any words at all. He held my face in his hands. Then, he leaned towards me, eyes half-closed, tilting his head. I closed my eyes, and when his lips touched mine, I felt faint.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to do that?" he asked quietly. He pressed his forehead to mine, and looked down at that table as he talked. "Since that first night we spoke. That guy was an ass, but you stood up to him. And I just wanted to...to hold you and tell you it would be all right, that you were really brave." His hands were trembling, and I placed mine over his to steady them. It really didn't help, because mine were shaking just as badly.

"How did you know?" I asked. "That you could kiss me and that I wouldn't push you away?"

"Well, I didn't." That smirk returned. "But I figured I could outrun you if you tried to get me." And he kissed me again.

Now, Cameron does have his faults. My apartment isn't exactly the epitome of neatness, but Cam could apply for federal disaster aid. On one of my visits there, I attempted to make coffee, but when I looked for milk, all I found was something that you couldn't drink but perhaps could take to your leader. But we all have our faults. I shouldn't work to the point of exhaustion, and maybe I shouldn't have that extra vodka tonic sometimes. But Cameron's a good person. He'll never treat me like Philip did. I can't say, "love me like Philip did." I wonder if Philip ever did love me. If so, he had a very strange way of showing it.

I didn't tell Cameron about Philip. Not much, anyway. I told Cameron that I had been very much in love with someone in college, and we were together for a long time, but we grew apart. And I thought that would be all I needed to say. I wasn't trying to keep it a secret. I just didn't feel it was worth mentioning.

But like an over-packed bag, the truth has a way of opening at inconvenient times. Cameron was telling me about an article he was working on, about battered women. "I'm studying the police reports and court files. Someone else is doing the interviews. I'm trying not to be judgmental, but I just wonder why they stay. I mean, what's happened to them, up here," he tapped the side of his head, "to feel like they can't leave."

"Maybe they feel like no one else will love them," I said. Beneath the table, my hands started to fidget. I scooted my chair in closer, so Cameron couldn't see. "Maybe they've been told it enough times, they start to believe it."  
"These are smart, pretty women. They could easily..."

I shook my head. "It doesn't matter. They're too afraid of what other people will be like, that their partner will be right." Shut up, Vic, one part of my brain was saying, but my mouth wouldn't listen. "They just get so trapped in it. Hearing every day about your character flaws. You, I mean, someone, would start to believe that is their character. I suppose."

He was looking down at the table, folding and unfolding the corner of a napkin. "Does it have to do with family background? In your opinion. This is something you've...encountered or thought about before."

"Not always. The parents may have been in a normal relationship. But the person just falls into it. Maybe they're young and inexperienced and just scared."

"Of the abuser." His eyes were on my face.

I hoped there was nothing there he could see. I dropped my head down farther. "They start to define themselves in terms of the relationship. They lose themselves, their sense of being an individual, so they become vulnerable. Then they start to fear others will find out about, about the choices they've made." The words were tumbling out so fast I couldn't stop them. "And then, they'd be alone. Alone and not knowing who they are. Trapped. In their own head." My voice was so low I barely heard it.

Cameron did, though. "Vic. Is there something you want to tell me? This isn't second-hand knowledge is it?"

I shook my head no. "Not here. I can't here." It wouldn't be good for staff morale for the boss to have an emotional breakdown in front of them, and cry figuratively or literally on another man's shoulder.

"Let's go some place then. I'll drive you home."

I told Morgan I was going home for the evening, that she was in charge. Cameron and I didn't say anything in the car. I was too preoccupied with what I was going to say. I wasn't sure if Cameron was letting me think in private, or if he was sorting out his feelings on the subject. Or on me.

Once we both settled in, I told him. It all just came right out. How Philip and I had had a very happy year and a half or so together, and then, it went wrong somehow. The mood swings. He went up and down so often, and as time went on, the down times were longer. He made me feel like such a child, like I didn't know anything about anything. Especially relationships.

"That's how it is, Vicky. One person wears the pants," he'd said on several occasions. God how I hated it when he called me Vicky.

"And since I'd never been in a relationship before, I took him at his word," I told Cameron. "My family was very traditional. My father wasn't exactly a dictator, but he was in charge."

"That was most of the households then. Mine was like that too," he said.

"So I thought that was the normal dynamic. I was just a little surprised at the expression of it."

"But when he started hitting you..."

"He didn't. Well, not until closer to the end."

It had started with words. Words like "useless," "spineless," "idiotic," and plenty of others. But I thought he was just being temperamental. We often say things that we don't mean. Especially when we're angry. I was never quite sure why he was angry. I had assumed I was the target because I was there. I never thought it would be more than words.

But then it started with the dishes.

Usually, he'd wait until after I'd left the room before he'd start smashing them. My recessional hymn became the sound of shattering glass. After one particularly loud row, he broke an entire set of plates. One night, he smashed a plate on the counter. A piece slid across the tile and bounced into the living room. I must have been having a bad day, because I re-entered the kitchen and confronted him about it. "If you keep this up, we're not going to have any crockery left."

After that, he wouldn't wait until I left the room to break things. I think he liked to watch me cringe. Even now, almost fifteen years later, the sound of breaking glass makes my heart skip. Sometime between the winter and spring quarter, he decided it would be amusing to throw them so they would smash near me. I perfected a crouching move that looked like it was out of the "duck and cover" film from elementary school.

And one night, he threw a punch. The whole argument started because I'd finished off the vodka. There was no shortage of liquor in the house, so I hadn't bothered to replace it immediately. But the lack of vodka became another excuse for him to yell at me. After enduring his tirade, I said, "If you had to cope with someone treating you the way you treat me every day, you'd feel like finishing off the vodka too."

Unlike the dishes, I didn't see the fist coming. He caught me right in the mouth. "I don't know why I stay with you!" he screamed.

For three years, I'd convinced myself that Philip hadn't known the effect his temper had on me. But touching my fingers to my split, bleeding lip, I saw that he knew. And that he didn't care. "I don't know why I stay with you either," I said quietly.

I took my keys and my wallet, and drove to my friend Lily's. She had been begging me for months to leave him, saying it would only get worse. I waited for the "I told you so," but it never came. She got me some ice for my lip and made up a bed on the couch. She and her husband helped me move my things out the next morning. All the while, Philip begged me not to leave. But I had learned not to hear.

"I suspected," Cameron said, edging closer to me, "that there was a third party in this couple. I'm sorry." After a long pause, he added, "You can stop looking at me like I'm going to run out on you, because I'm not."

I'd spent most of the time looking at the floor, the coffee table, my hands—anywhere but at Cameron. Finally, I glanced over, very quickly. There was no criticism or pity there, just patience and sympathy. "I didn't think you would."

He smiled. "Yes you did. Your eyes always give you away." He took my hand as turned serious again. "He's wrong," Cameron said firmly. "You're not any of those things he said you were."

"I know." It had taken me a very long time to accept that, but I had. I just hadn't wanted to risk being in a relationship where I'd have to hear it all again. It took me twelve years after walking out on Philip to figure out who I was. I did. And I wasn't about to let anyone tear down what it took so long to build. I ran the risk of being the lone sentinel of an empty, fortified heart, unless I reached out.

So I did.

And I eventually found out it was a medallion of Saint Andrew, patron saint of Scotland, on the end of that tarnished silver chain.


End file.
